Writ In Thy Flesh
by MizJoely
Summary: Molly Hooper's forearms are frustratingly blank. When will she find her soulmate - and will she be able to love him as much as she loves Sherlock Holmes? A soulmates AU.
1. William who?

_A/N: This is a soulmates AU where your soulmate's name doesn't appear on your forearm until after you've actually met and touched (skin to skin contact) - but the physical contact isn't enough; the soulmates have to actually be 'worthy' of one another. There will be one more chapter after this one. :)_

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><p><em>Be he worthy of ye, his name shall appear, <em>_Soulmates forever, eternal held dear._

It was a rhyme every child in the UK knew, had heard since earliest childhood. The rhyme existed in various forms in every culture on Earth, literate or not, since the Soul Names happened to almost everyone, sooner or later. Of course there were the poor unfortunates who never met their destined mates, whom others might pity or whisper about behind their backs.

Unfortunates like Molly Hooper, aged 33 and still no name on her forearm. One day, she'd always believed, she would meet him, the man meant for her; they would touch, the vital skin-to-skin contact would occur, his name would appear, and they'd live happily ever after.

Or so she'd believed until the fateful day she met Sherlock Holmes and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that no other man, Soulmate or not, could possibly hold a candle to him.

She'd been so instantly smitten – by not only his ethereal good looks and his velvety smooth voice, but also by his blinding intelligence – that as soon as they'd shaken hands she'd expected…something. Some people felt a tingle on their flesh when their Soulmate's name appeared; some described it as more of an electrical shock, others reported a sensation of warmth or cold, but just as many others felt nothing and had no idea their world had been altered until they rolled up their sleeves or shrugged out of their coats and found a name scrawled on their flesh in their Soulmate's handwriting.

Oh how she'd hoped that to be the case, but after Sherlock left, sweeping Mike Stamford in his wake, she'd been disappointed to see not a single line forming on either forearm. Not then, not an hour from then, not days or weeks or months from then.

After she'd come to know Sherlock a bit better, she thought maybe her instant infatuation – which she forced herself to call it as years passed and no name ever appeared in her flesh, his or anyone else's – had been Fate's way of telling her to give up on finding her Soulmate and try to find happiness elsewhere. So she did; once she figured out that Sherlock was either uninterested or completely oblivious to her interest in him, she tried dating other men, most disastrously of course being "Jim from IT" Moriarty.

After his identity had been revealed – and after she'd breathed a silent relief at the bullet she'd dodged when his name _hadn't_ appeared on her arm, although she'd been disappointed at first – she'd given up on dating for a good long while. Why not? It was clear that she'd already found the man she would love for the rest of her life, Soulmate or not, and no amount of attempts at replacing him in her heart would ever work.

Then, Christmas. She'd taken her courage in both hands, donned a sleeveless dress that bared her forearms (as if anyone who knew her didn't already know there was nothing inscribed on either of them), carefully wrapped Sherlock's gift and placed it on top of the bag holding the other gifts, and gone to Baker Street. She'd been so nervous, and then it had happened.

No, not Sherlock tearing her to shreds in front of the shocked eyes of the others in the room, although he'd never done that to her before. Certainly not with such an unexpected viciousness in his voice and eyes. Yes, that had been awful, but she'd been proud of how steady her voice had been when she called him out on it. No, the surprising thing had been his apology, and then he'd done the even more unexpected – he'd kissed her on the cheek, just a swift peck before his orgasmically-moaning phone had taken his attention away from her.

She touched that spot on her cheek now, years later, smiling softly at the memory, although the smile faded as she recalled what had happened immediately after she'd returned home to her silent flat and her sleeping cat and shucked her coat. As she dropped heavily onto her sofa, she'd felt a searing pain in her left forearm; crying out, she cradled it in her other arm, staring down in disbelief as the name appeared.

But not the name she'd half-feared and fully hoped for. Not 'Sherlock', but 'William'.

"William." She'd said the name aloud, feeling a distant sense of disappointment that was rapidly replaced by puzzlement. "Who the heck is William?"

She'd wracked her brains for a good hour before it came to her – her friend Meena was dating a new bloke, Molly had met him a week ago, wasn't his name Bill? Yes, it was, and Molly had shaken his hand upon being introduced and this was the absolute worst possible thing that could have happened! She'd dropped her head in her hands and groaned; there was no way she was going to be able to face either of them again! And, oh God, even worse! Was her name now inscribed on Bill's forearm? Meena would hate her forever!

Molly spent the next few weeks on tenterhooks, waiting for an explosion that never came. What if her name hadn't appeared on Bill's forearm? What if it had and he was hiding it from Meena? What if Meena had secretly murdered him and was plotting Molly's own demise? No, silly, of course not, Meena was her friend, she couldn't look at everyone she knew through the suspicious lens of how she'd been used by Jim Moriarty! Besides, she'd known Meena since uni, and even if it turned out that her boyfriend had her best friend's name written on his forearm, she'd be reasonable…after an initial meltdown of course.

Two weeks later Molly was left even more confused than ever when a beaming Meena and Bill revealed each other's names on their forearms and announced their engagement.

Clearly, Bill wasn't the William on Molly's skin. So who was he, then? Some stranger she'd brushed up against on the Tube, a taxi driver who's hand she'd touched when paying him the fare? The clerk at the Tesco's where she'd bought her groceries? It was frustrating, knowing her Soulmate was out there, that Fate had deemed someone worthy of her and she of him, but not knowing who he was!

She remained in a state of frustrated confusion as her ex-boyfriend Jim dragged Sherlock into a deadly new game, watching in horror as he was tried and acquitted for crimes she damn well knew he'd committed. Then the wrenching night when Sherlock came to her and admitted that he expected to die, asked her for her help, and told her he needed her.

Of course she helped him. He might not be her Soulmate, but he was still the man she loved; she would do anything for him. 'Anything' in this case meant working with his brother to fake his death, and not seeing him again for two long, lonely years.

Two years made even lonelier after she filled out Sherlock's Death Certificate. It had taken her a long time to do it, even knowing it was fake, and as soon as she pulled up Sherlock's file on the computer she'd nearly burst into hysterical laughter.

The first line was 'Name' of course…and when she saw Sherlock's full name for the first time she understood the rather cruel joke that had been played on her.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Sherlock was her Soulmate.

Molly laid her head on her folded arms and cried.


	2. Together Again for the First Time

**Two Years Later**

Two years. The longest two years of his life, even worse than the two years right after uni when he was in and out of rehab. But he was home now; clean-shaven, hair properly barbered, wearing his own clothes – well, new clothes since his old ones no longer fit comfortably – and shrugging into his beloved Belstaff. His injuries had been tended to, he'd been debriefed, and now he was off to reclaim his life, confidence oozing from every pore.

Mycroft had seen the name written on his forearm, of course; and although he'd kept silent about it Sherlock had seen his lips twitch with disapproval. As if his little brother had done something shameful, turning out to be just like every other ordinary human being on the planet. Well, Mycroft could go fuck himself, as far as Sherlock was concerned; his elder brother had tried to convince him that forgoing human contact – literal, physical human contact as well as emotional contact – was for the best. That they were above such petty inconveniences as loneliness and sentiment.

That they neither wanted nor needed a Soulmate.

There were times when Sherlock believed that the only reason his brother bore no name was because he was so careful not to touch anyone unless he had to. And there were other times, when he was feeling less than charitable, that he believed he bore no name because he'd simply never proven worthy of whatever poor sod had the name 'Mycroft' etched into his or her flesh.

When he was feeling more kindly, however, Sherlock sincerely hoped that Mycroft would one day understand that neither sentiment nor Soul Names were chemical defects found on the losing side. That caring _was_ an advantage. That being alone didn't keep you safe – that it only kept you, well, _alone_.

After two years of that, Sherlock Holmes had more than had enough. He missed his life, his friends, his landlady…and most of all, he missed his pathologist.

No matter how insouciant a front he'd presented for Mycroft and his PA and other underlings, Sherlock was both excited and nervous at the prospect of taking up his lost life again. Of seeing the faces who had come to mean so much to him – Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. John. Molly.

He only hoped that they would be as happy to see him as he was in anticipation of seeing them.

Two years. The longest two years of Molly Hooper's life, with the exception of the two years during which her father had been diagnosed with cancer, ultimately succumbing to it. Two long, lonely years of watching John Watson drift further and further away from the life he'd made as Sherlock's best friend and blogger. Two years of visits with Sherlock's landlady, who inevitably got teary-eyed about her lost boy, the son she'd never had. Two years of after-work pints with Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson before he became too lost in his guilt and grief and began obsessing over a dead man that wasn't actually dead.

Two years of keeping two secrets hugged close to her heart; one she could share with a select few people – standoffish Mycroft and his parents, the loveliest people ever – and one she kept to herself.

Molly was careful never to show her forearm to anyone. Luckily she worked in a job where keeping her arms covered was not only expected but encouraged, and unfortunately there wasn't anyone in her life to see her the few times her arms weren't covered. No boyfriends, no casual lovers – how could there be, when her flesh bore a Soul Name? Her friends tried to set her up a time or two – there was a sweet young man named Tom who might have been worth a date or two – but she gently discouraged them all, claiming it wasn't the right time in her life for romance. They chalked it up to grief at losing Sherlock, even as they urged her to move on. Tom, she knew, had been particularly disappointed when they shook hands; he'd shot a quick glance at his forearm and his expressive, open face had shown a flash of disappointment before his easy grin had reappeared.

That had been six months ago. Sometimes Molly wondered if she should have just gone out with Tom, had a few dates and maybe something more. Something to ease the ache in her heart, the loneliness and worry she lived with on a daily basis. She knew Sherlock was alive, but that was all; Mycroft kept her informed on an erratic basis, but she didn't need his reports to know that Sherlock hadn't been killed. The letters written on her forearm remained just as dark and strong as when they'd first appeared, with no signs of fading as they would have shown had something…fatal…happened to him.

No man might know the hour of his own death, but every person on Earth knew the hour of their Soulmate's last breaths. Knowing he was alive steadied Molly whenever she felt overwhelmed, and gave her the determination to get on with her life in spite of not knowing when or if Sherlock would ever return to London.

No, not 'if', never 'if', she chastised herself as she ended her shift and trudged down to the locker room in the basement of St. Bart's. She would run a comb through her hair, maybe refresh her lipstick, gather up her belongings and head back to her flat. An evening of Chinese take-away, wine, crap telly, and her cranky tom-cat, Toby, eventually purring on her lap might not be anyone's idea of an ideal night, but it was what she was looking forward to after a long, hard day filled with autopsies and paperwork.

She sighed and stretched, then reached up and pulled open her locker door. The mirror she'd fastened inside caught her reflection…and that of another person standing silently behind her. With a gasp, Molly recognized the gently smiling face of Sherlock Holmes, and turned to face him.

At first glance two years might not have passed at all; his hair as it had been when she'd last seen him, the beloved planes and angles of his face exactly as she remembered them, his eyes shining a bit bluer in the harsh light of the overheads…but a closer examination told the real story. Unconsciously she stepped forward, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his left cheek, tracing the zygomatic bone with her thumb. His eyes fluttered shut, but not before she saw the warmth and tenderness he hadn't bothered to try to hide, along with the weariness and uncertainty he had. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, urging his head downward, and he acquiesced, leaning until his forehead rested on hers. "I've missed you," he said quietly.

Molly said nothing, feeling her breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest as she pulled back and stared steadily at him. His brow furrowed, but as he parted his lips to ask the obvious question, she stepped away from him, dropping her hands from his head and shrugging out of her lab coat.

His expression went neutral, but his eyes were scanning her every move, and came to rest on her forearm as she rolled up her right sleeve and showed it to him, as she'd longed to do for the past two years. She heard him breathe out a sigh, then watched as he mirrored her earlier movements, shrugging out of his Belstaff and laying it carefully on the nearest bench, along with his suit jacket. He returned to his position in front of her, carefully unbuttoning his left sleeve and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, rolling it up until she could see his own forearm…and the name it held.

"Molly," she said aloud, then said nothing else as she tried to grasp the fact that it was clearly her own signature he bore on his flesh.

"It's been there since I first met you," Sherlock confessed, and Molly's startled gaze flew up to meet his. He nodded grave confirmation of his words as she gaped at him. "Not five seconds after we shook hands I felt a burning sensation, just here." He reached out and lightly stroked his fingers along her name, and Molly shivered as if he'd touched her body instead of his own.

"So, you've known, all this time you've known, but you never said anything," Molly said, trying not to sound hurt or disappointed and knowing she was failing miserably.

"Because I knew my name hadn't appeared on your arm," he replied swiftly, reaching out and catching her wrist as she started to turn away. "It certainly wasn't there the last time I actually saw your bare arms. That…Christmas," he added, his voice lowering. He looked away, and Molly thought…no, could he really look…ashamed?

Well, why not? He'd apologized to her almost immediately that night, showing that he damn well knew he'd been in the wrong. Perhaps that was why his brief kiss had triggered his own name appearing on her arm. "That's when your name showed up, after I'd gone home," she confessed quietly. "Even though you were so awful to me, something else triggered it." She smiled suddenly and gave into her desire to brush his curls from his forehead. "You were a bastard, but you apologized right away…and meant it. I guess that was enough for whatever force it is that causes these to appear." She gestured with her free hand to her own forearm, then gave into another impulse. One that she'd been fighting for years before the name 'William' was writ in her flesh.

She kissed him. She kissed him and he kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush to his lean form. She twined her arms round his neck and let him feel exactly how desperately she loved him, and felt his own emotions in the fervency with which he returned her kiss.

"I still don't think I deserve you," he said when the kiss ended. "But I will do my very best to remain as worthy of you as fate or God or whoever seems to think I am."

Molly smiled up at him. "Oh, Sherlock, don't you understand? It's not up to Fate or God or anyone else to tell me who I deserve. It's up to me, and in my mind, you've always been worthy."

They kissed again, feeling each other's heatbeats, breathing each other's breaths, content in the knowledge that they'd finally found one another.

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><p><em>AN: Welp, there it is, a two-parter posted in two days. Thanks to everyone for their enthusiastic support of this little story...truly, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the number of reviews and favorites for this! Thanks to everyone and I hope you enjoyed the conclusion._


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